To a Blank Page

I don't mind telling you, Blank Page.
I don't mind telling you of the bleak grey despair that floods my heart,
the knowledge that the loved is elsewhere,
with elseone,
doing elsethings,
while I sit alone in someone else's house and seep salt pain.

I don't mind telling you, Blank Page,
my heart is splitting, sodden and swollen with unshed, disappointed tears
For a dissipated, broken heart
that within craves the simple purity of peace,
of love,
of harmony,
But without weaves discord,
emanates red rage,
Stains a clean white page black with clumsily wielded ink
ground from the ashes of the past.

I don't mind telling you, Blank Page
I hate my phone, sitting unrung.
I hate loud trucks.
I hate my air of expectant stillness
inspired by both
like a faithful neglected hound
harking the return of the beloved.

I don't mind telling you, Blank Page,
of the black hole that swirls within me,
a slow spinning maelstrom,
a hurricane of fascination that draws my soul's eye
trying to draw me ever inwards
to stare in horrified amaze
forever.

I don't mind telling you, Blank Page,
of the primal scream that wells just behind my lips,
the pressure behind my eyeballs,
the wet wool blanket that smothers my joy
when I am alone,
the storm threatening to swamp,
to chomp,
to grind the thin dory of hope
between the giant molars of its abyssal troughs.

No, I don't mind telling you, Blank Page.